Peter Jensen - The blackmailed mother book I

"I didn't know you'd ever seen a strip show," Cylvia said, adding insult to injury. "I didn't think you approved of them."

"I think they're lots of fun," Lonnie retorted, stung. She had seen one, in San Diego, with Roger before they were married, and she thought it as disgusting. "I'd love to see one, if it's good and hot." She could almost bite her tongue after blurting out the bald-faced lie. But the inferences to her Pollyanna virtue was too much to bear. Zeigler might not know her, but Cylvia should! Hadn't she given her friend her body just a couple of hours ago?

Zeigler signed the back of the bill with a flourish, not even bothering to see how much it was. Lonnie was impressed; Sam must be very successful to afford not even to look at the amount, and to be known well enough to sign rather than pay. Then he led the girls to the elevator, which she'd never even heard of before much less about the rooms above, and down one of the halls after the short ride to the second floor.

Lonnie was startled by the richness all around her. As Zeigler opened one of the doors to the converted rooms and held it open for her and Cylvia, she thought she'd entered a Hollywood set. There was a small but lavish bar next to the door, and a set of soft, low couches facing the large picture window. Through the window she could see other windows encircling a large stage, which was bare at the moment. One spotlight shone down like a ray of sun on the exact center, and some of the other rooms had their lights on, too, so that Lonnie could see other couples, three-somes, and parties of fours talking and drinking. Still other windows were dark, opaque and at first she thought they were the empty ones until she caught the fire-fly glimmer of a cigarette ember in one of them.

"Well, kiddies, how about a drink? What'll you have?" Zeigler grinned and went behind the bar. "Brandy, Benedictine, scotch, more Grand Marnier perhaps?"

The Grand Marnier had been delicious; Lonnie had another of the sweet liqueur, while Zeigler and Cylvia both had Black Russians. When Zeigler served Lonnie he let his hand slide down and half cup her right breast, but Lonnie moved away, uncertain whether it was an accident, but more worried that his one contact had made her nipple leap erect.

"Here's to a good evening, kiddies," Zeigler toasted.

Lonnie tipped her glass and the warm, smooth liquid felt wonderful going down. Then she sat down on one of the couches, tucking her feet under her buttocks after slipping her shoes off. Modestly she pressed her thighs and knees together so that Zeigler couldn't see up her tiny wisp of skirt – up to where her soft, hair-fringed cunt nestled nakedly. She smiled even as she remembered his hand on her breast, and when he winked at her she detected a certain lewd quality in the man she'd missed before. The hapless wife hoped that she hadn't gotten in over her head with her brave talk – but if things did get too rough she could always demand that a taxi be called. The logic soothed her and she drank more of the seemingly harmless liqueur.

Zeigler and Cylvia sat down on the same couch with Lonnie, crowding her, and the strange man's legs pressed against her thighs tightly. She tried to squirm away but there wasn't room. Then as a few minutes passed some of her restraints passed as once more she was laughing at Zeigler's stories and the banter which passed between him and Mrs. Oliss. Then Zeigler turned to her and said: "There's a few minutes before the show. I'd like to dance." He got up and went to a switch on the wall, and from a hidden speaker came a lilting refrain of a popular song, oozing violins and muted horns. Zeigler crossed to Roger Carmel's young wife and added: "You don't mind, do you, Lonnie?"

Lonnie looked at Cylvia pleadingly, but there was no help forthcoming. The other woman had a peculiar glint in her eyes, a shine which Lonnie had never seen before and made her uneasy. "Go right ahead," Cylvia purred in an erotic voice. "Enjoy yourself, Lonnie. That's why we came tonight, wasn't it?"

With a premonition of dread, Lonnie Carmel allowed herself to be pulled from her sitting position and into the stranger's arms. Their bodies met and Zeigler proved to be an excellent dancer, and she found herself melting in his strong embrace. The slow tempo beat through her body, and her breasts strained through the thin blouse, and after Zeigler had slipped his leg between her thighs she could sense a light dampness ease its way from her vagina as the rougher material of his suit rubbed her bare inner thighs and naked vaginal slit. It was as if he was fingering her, the way the tiny G-string pushed against her sensitive flesh and his leg grazed her tender skin – and she tried to pull back, alarmed. But his arms tightened, holding her closer.

The pretty wife turned her head and caught the length of her body and groaned with embarrassment. Her skirt was almost above her hips, and the fullness of her buttocks were visible to not only Cylvia, but to Zeigler, reflected as they were in the room's many mirrors, and to anybody in the other rooms who cared to look at her. The shiver of mortification, instead of making her stop, only seemed to urge her on, a tingle of wickedness starting in her belly. The alcohol lowered her reserves, the soothing music dropped them still further, and the awakening of her prurient desires by her lusting girlfriend shortly before shattered them. She allowed herself to drift from concerned fright into a slumberous feeling of wickedness. After all… it wasn't as if Sam was actually fucking her!

The lewd word, which had suddenly popped into her dizzy mind made Lonnie gasp. What was she thinking! She was thinking of being unfaithful to Roger… but hadn't she been already? The concept, which she promised herself would never take place, was erotically exciting to think about, though… She closed her eyes and imagined what Sam Zeigler would look like naked, his penis slipping inside her vagina – was he bigger than Roger? She opened her legs wider and bent backwards, jerking her body to the music beat, not wanting to stop now. Zeigler placed his hands on her all but naked buttocks and pulled her to his throbbing cock. She ground her hips against his loins, unable to control her body's sudden awakening, breathing a new fire which was growing in her.

The music stopped. Lonnie awoke from her stupor and shamed, she pulled out of Zeigler's arms and sat down hurriedly. The man said: "Your friend has a beautiful body, Cylvia."

"You should see her naked, Sam. She's really gorgeous."

Lonnie finished the contents of her glass in one gulp, petrified at the suggestive words her girlfriend had spoken. She blossomed in crimson and looked out on the stage. Then a cool, tall glass was slipped into her hands by Zeigler. "No more Grand Marnier, I'm afraid, Lonnie. Have a Black Russian with us." He sat down beside her, brushing her thighs as he had before…

And the house lights dimmed. Now the other windows were dark, and Lonnie noticed that the room they were in had also been plunged into darkness. The performance was about to begin! There was a soft rustling sound, and then from the middle of the stage's ceiling came a bed. It slowly lowered on gold chains – one at each corner. And on the bed was a young girl. Lonnie thought that the girl was about her daughter, Jennie's, age, perhaps a couple of years older, and as she sipped the Black Russian absently, she felt sympathy for the girl. The little titian-haired adolescent looked so forlorn and trembling as she looked around her, clad only in a brief bra and panties. They were black, and contrasted with her ivory skin.

Then the girl got up on her knees and arched her back as if yawning and tired. It seemed so real… Lonnie empathized, and identified with her innocence and melancholic look. The girl slipped her bra from her shoulders, and firm, ripe, yet almost child-like breasts hoved into view. The dias started to slowly revolve now so that little by little everybody in all the rooms, and Lonnie caught the sight off all of the lovely form as she turned.